Long Quiet Poems
Long Quiet Poems. Below are the most popular long Quiet by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Quiet poems by poem length and keyword.
This morning I noticed the fence leaning,
a tired spine under the weight of years,
its wooden slats splintered, soft as my knees
after too many trips up the attic stairs.
The body, I mean, not the house—though both
seem to sag in the same quiet defeat.
But look at the yard: crabgrass and clover
have staged a coup, their green fists punching
through cracks in the patio’s old concrete.
Ants march in neat rows, claiming the crumbs
of my breakfast left on the wicker chair.
Nature doesn’t care about my stiff joints.
I tried to pull a dandelion once,
thinking I could tame the chaos with a tug.
It snapped, left roots grinning underground,
as if to say, We were here first.
My heart, that old pump, skips a beat or two,
while the weeds write their novel in the dirt.
I sit by the window, counting my aches,
each one a plot point in a story I’d rather
not read. Yet the vines keep climbing the shed,
their leaves a bright defiance against rust.
Maybe that’s the trick—not to fight the green,
but to let it grow, wild, over my bones.
Let Me Live for Me (Before Wi-Fi Drops Again)
Let me live for myself a little, please,
Let me sit with my soul in quiet ease.
I’ve fixed the world, I’ve solved the clan —
Now let me figure out… who I am!
What am I? How am I? Where do I stand?
Why does life feel unplanned?
I search for myself with dramatic flair —
Then forget why I even came there!
My culture, my country, my identity too,
So many roles — which one is true?
This tiny life, this fleeting song,
Why does adulthood feel so long?
Time gives no warning, age no clue,
No “update available” popping through.
This breath-by-breath subscription plan
Expires faster than we can.
Life slips through fingers like grains of sand,
No instruction guide, no helping hand.
No blinking sign, no flashing light —
Just Monday turning into Friday night!
This era runs at lightning pace,
We blink once — boom! Someone’s replaced.
One moment trending, next moment gone,
Like yesterday’s forgotten song.
Who knows when the thread will snap?
Mid-sentence? Mid-dream? Mid-afternoon nap?
At which turn, on which road bend,
Will Google Maps say, “Journey end”?
Where we’ll go — no one can say,
Life just changes day by day.
Plot twists come with no preview,
Even destiny says, “Surprise for you!”
So before I log out of this grand show,
There’s something important I need to know:
That I have met my inner light,
Not just scrolled through life each night.
Not lost inside the noisy crowd,
Trying to make my ego proud —
But pausing long enough to see
What it really means to be… me.
So let me live for myself right now,
I deserve that much — allow me somehow.
Let me stitch small lamps of peace inside,
Where calm and chaos both reside.
Because in the end, when curtains fall,
No trophies, no applause at all —
Just one soft whisper, clear and free
“I met myself… and she met me.”
There is regret,
shelved torn fingernail.
You were smuggled away,
bound to an older bosom.
I needed to quickly name you.
The name I gave was flimsy.
You disappeared inside my eyes.
It all seems worse than wrong now.
I gave them your drowned face,
they breathed new air into it.
Dressed you to forget.
I can only see phantom clumps of you,
shreds flying in the wind
a transparent stranger.
I cannot now speak to your
namelessness.
All has gone quiet inside me.
I have been sewing tight a womb
made of long-evening shadows.
I feel less flesh confined, more porous
to the residual flavor of you.
The intuition that seeps its way through this mind, can read people well and pin point the sort
that are unkind.
The people you don't want to mess with, the people who feel the need to judge, and the ones
who take advantage and who hold a grudge.
Its funny how some people can be as open as a book, yet others can close themselves up
when you want to take a look.
The loud mouths, the quiet ones and those who don't care, that the things they come out with
at times can be rather unfair.
you have the people who are two faced and those who are fake.
Its better to drift away from people with that attitude for your own sake.
It takes all sorts of people to make up this earth, as we are given our own temperaments
from the day of our birth.
some are blessed with looks and plenty of attraction, while others may not but are full of
affection.
there are those who find it difficult to show their emotion,
it comes naturally to most while others don't have a notion.
One things for sure its not the outside of a person or the way they look that amounts.
Its their inner beauty and personality that really counts.
~
"Give me a whisper and give me a sigh"
Those soft words following the emotions in your eyes
exhale poetry on my whimpered dreams
Take from me all that I can give while
reaching for that sunset…a distant prism of light
"Give me a kiss before you, tell me goodbye"
Soft lips in sad shapes, downturned towards darkened fears,
moist as they meet in wilted wishes
Walking away…a silhouette of that which I long for
as tears drift on silent zephyrs
"Don't you take it so hard now and please don't take it so bad"
To know this feeling, I swear I don’t,
still calling out in echoed chants flowing naked valleys
Hoping you hear, praying you smile, asking you to listen
before the moon fractures in cosmic sorrow
"I'll still be thinkin' of you and the times we had...baby"
Eternal visions find you and me, hand in hand,
dancing on quiet shores, melodic surf rhythms
In memories of what can be, should be
as stars drip into anguished teacups pleading
"Don’t you cry tonight…"
Written with a little help from the Guns n Roses song, “Don’t Cry”
The italicized lines are lyrics from their song
This song came on the radio today and it reminded me I had written this poem.
I thought it would be appropriate for today…this is a repost
John Hamilton and Heidi Sands may recognize this
but hopefully it is new to you.
I hope you enjoy it.
He thought she smiled when times were tough,
But never saw it wasn’t enough.
He held her hand but never knew
The weight she carried out of view.
Blind to her tears, blind to her cries,
He missed the truth behind her eyes.
The love she gave, the dreams she bled,
Were slipping through the words unsaid.
She whispered soft, her voice grew thin,
But all he gave was what’s within.
His love was there, but eyes were closed,
To all the hurt she never showed.
Blind to her tears, blind to her cries,
He missed the truth behind her eyes.
The love she gave, the dreams she bled,
Were slipping through the words unsaid.
She longed for more, but silence grew,
He couldn’t feel what she lived through.
Her heart was loud, yet fell unheard,
He never caught her quiet words.
Blind to her tears, blind to her cries,
He missed the truth behind her eyes.
The love she gave, the dreams she bled,
Were slipping through the words unsaid.
Stillness envelopes the midnight hour
The moon dead glimmers on
Throwing pale shades on instruments and stationeries
The day's done therefore feign normalcy (to pretend)
Corpses shed their daily skins
Their facade, painfully branded
From their hair to toes
Now some sleep, few finally awake
Some reminisce,
A pine from the past
Some still create
They cry and are yearning
Oh madness, consume me
Turn me into art
I so dearly long Pray Les, the muses take
Let me die and become
Archive Jan'24
Just as Atmospherically and hauntingly beautiful this one is...almost like a nighttime sister to me...The phase of life which is more like quiet, eerie, and emotionally heavy, wrapped in stillness...yearning..nd a kind of creative desperation...There’s an aching, almost holy longing here... to be consumed by madness..to become art...ahh or to be transformed...even if it means destruction.
Here she comes. You’ll see.
The room got quiet.
Yes, she was an unknown girl.
Her knockers were not only enormous
They were practically loose.
The women did not seem to notice.
Grandma was stirring up a big pot of spaghetti.
My mother, the Den mother, was chopping salads.
There were eight of us boys, and we were twelve.
We were eaters.
The girl was unknown to us.
But we were fascinated.
We had never seen them out in the open like that.
We began to giggle.
She turned and they knocked a lamp off.
“No worries!” Grandma said. “Just pick it back up.”
As she was picking it up, she said “ouch!”
Because they were slapped up against it.
“Loosen your grip,” Danny one of my friends said.
She did, and it worked.
She came over to thank him and hit him in the eye with one of them.
He jumped up and ran out screaming.
He had never been hit like that before.
All that bragging about his experience.
Grandma turned and looked at the unknown.
“Go get more clothes on!” she ordered her.
Taking away our fun.
Apparently she is my cousin.
Who knew?
It’s early Sunday, I can see my breath
The morning air is crisp but not cold
The sunrise is reflecting on the river
My greyhound is bundled up beside me
My feet walk briskly, grounding me
My dog walks on my left, beside me
His tags making a soft jingle sound
I can see my dog’s breath as he walks
The sound of his feet and mine together
A rhythm that is soothing and grounding
Suddenly an eagle swoops over the water
Magnificent with his wings open wide
We stop and pause, taking in the beauty
We walk around town, it’s calm and quiet
I now feel more relaxed and refreshed
Thankful to have these Zen moments
The streets grow loud with the tambour of laughter.
In the normally quiet witching hour, carols tumble, unplanned, from merry crowds.
Even the stoic gendarmerie patrolling the Champ de Mars are showing their smiles.
For it’s almost Christmas.
Servants, having gotten their Christmas bonuses,
practically dance the mahogany halls,
crowned in festive paper ivy and borrowed silver bells,
humming in merry misrule - as if all rank has turned topsy-turvy.
Downstairs, the chef (Julian) is in fine, bustling form,
like a magician setting up a great trick.
For things are getting serious - thirty Christmas geese,
a ghostly-pale flock for feasting, arrived this morning, as did some
very large salmon, crates of cheese, fruit, liqueurs, and champagne.
Peter and I were hoping for a calm Christmas day
but that dream’s no longer in play.
For on Christmas day, Grandmère celebrates brunch
with two hundred and some fifty of her closest, most indecorous friends.
I’m the corrected granddaughter.
“Oh, you must come to this one,” Grandmère said, in an injured whisper.
I can’t resist that tone in her voice. “If we must,” I sighed.
So I will be, for a few hours at least, a reluctant holiday prisoner.
“Good,” she smiled, her voice restored in victory.
”I bought you a dress,” she added slyly for mollification.
My ears perked up - she knows the designers I like.
“It was just delivered to your room,” she said knowingly.
“Oh, who will suffer to rescue me?” I asked Peter, in mock drama.
“Don’t look at me,” he said, taking refuge behind a mug of frozen eggnog.
.
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A Christmas playlist for this:
daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_30.mp3